“I’m not a street bully, and I don’t excel in a rough-and-tumble. Will you fight now like a gentleman? There’s a pair of blades in the case yonder.”
Mr. Rassendyll, in his turn, was keenly alive to the peril that still hung over the queen. To kill Rupert would not save her if he himself also were shot and left dead, or so helpless that he could not destroy the letter; and while Rupert’s revolver was at his heart he could not tear it up nor reach the fire that burnt on the other side of the room. Nor did he fear the result of a trial with steel, for he had kept himself in practice and improved his skill since the days when he came first to Strelsau.
“As you will,” said he. “Provided we settle the matter here and now, the manner is the same to me.”
“Put your revolver on the table, then, and I’ll lay mine by the side of it.”
“I beg your pardon,” smiled Rudolf, “but you must lay yours down first.”
“I’m to trust you, it seems, but you won’t trust me!”
“Precisely. You know you can trust me; you know that I can’t trust you.”
A sudden flush swept over Rupert of Hentzau’s face. There were moments when he saw, in the mirror of another’s face or words, the estimation in which honorable men held him; and I believe that he hated Mr. Rassendyll most fiercely, not for thwarting his enterprise, but because he had more power than any other man to show him that picture. His brows knit in a frown, and his lips shut tight.
“Ay, but though you won’t fire, you’ll destroy the letter,” he sneered. “I know your fine distinctions.”
“Again I beg your pardon. You know very well that, although all Strelsau were at the door, I wouldn’t touch the letter.”